


Nothing Personal

by tenderly_wicked



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Asexual Steve Rogers, Brainwashing, Dubious Consent, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Torture, Self-Harm, Whipping, asexual Steve Rogers having sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8816017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: Inspired by this prompt. Captain America, of all people, is highly unlikely to end up in an abusive relationship. He’s able to stand up for himself, right? Except that maybe he doesn’t want to.





	1. Longing

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to my beta [foreheadofsecurity](http://foreheadofsecurity.tumblr.com/)!

Come to think of it, everyone is conditioned. Everyone has code words from the past that make you act in a certain way. For Bucky Barnes, it’s a chain of seemingly uninvolved nouns, adjectives, and numbers in Russian. For Steve, it’s a name.

Just that one time when Brock Rumlow had said “Bucky” and Steve had frozen in place as if paralyzed—it shows how easy it is to reduce him to a mess when his old-time friend is involved.

It’s been ten days since Bucky has gone into his cryo-sleep, and loneliness feels like a chronic disease; always lurking, never ending and inevitable. Steve had almost gotten used to it over the years, but its relapse is so intense that it becomes hard to breathe sometimes, as if there is barbed wire coiled tight in his chest.

Well, at least he’s got a purpose now to divert him, an aim to follow with visceral intent. _Focus_ , Steve tells himself. _You know what to do_. This time, he’s not going to save the world. He’s to save just one man. What happens next is of little importance.

They had destroyed the red book with the star on it. The one with the code words that primed Bucky to accept orders from whoever. To become a lethal weapon, ready to eliminate any target he was pointed at. But there might be a copy somewhere, and Steve knows Bucky is well aware of this.

Bucky had said that him going under was the best thing for everybody, at least until they figured out how to get the treacherous stuff out of his head. Steve’s heart had clenched at that. Bucky might be willing to make decisions of his own regarding his life; but he’d been manipulated like a puppet by mad scientists and military brutes for so long with his free will stripped from him, that he automatically assumes there will be someone to fix him.

But who would it be? S.H.I.E.L.D.? Why would they bother if Bucky is safely out of their way, frozen and forgotten? Who else? Possibly criminals or corrupt politicians who just want to reprogram the Winter Soldier for their own needs. No one else will give a damn. Bucky will sleep in his cryo coffin; and if he ever wakes up, there will be pain and horror again. Not salvation. And Steve’s not going to let it happen.

Steve repeats the words again in again, trying to find out if there’s a system to them. _Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car._

17, 9, 1 is obviously Bucky’s birth date in a reverse sequence, a kind of a countdown. Freight car… That might be a reminder of their ride back from Rockaway Beach in the back of that freezer truck when they’d been boys. This episode is of some significance to Steve, so it should have been for Bucky, too, though he’d acted like he’d forgotten about it. On the other hand, probably that’s just projecting. He _wants_ Bucky to remember, that’s all. In Russian, the words mean a railroad car, not a truck at all, so it could be about the day Bucky had fallen from that train in the Alps. Steve’s not sure. Memories get mixed up sometimes.

As for the other words, Steve is even less sure if they are just random or if they are connected to other things in Bucky’s memory.

But however they work, he must find a way to neutralize them. Undo the damage of brainwashing. Reverse it. There must be people who know what to do. There must be records, studies or scientific research on the subject. It’s fascinating after all, the programming and deprogramming a human being. He could find books. He could find psychologists, first through Internet and then in person if needed. He is a specialist in Bucky Barnes, he’ll figure it out how to fix him.

There’s sleazy whispering at the back of his mind, very much like the computerized voice of Doctor Zola, “Oh no, dear, don’t pretend to be noble. You’re not doing this for poor Bucky. You do it for yourself. You’re so alone and frightened, aren’t you? Just a stupid, idealistic kid trapped in a body of a superhuman and sent into the scary future. It’s so hard to find someone with shared life experiences. And yet here’s another of your kind, finally a buddy for you to play with. So of course you need him out of stasis. You want him to be stuck with you forever, grateful for deliverance.”

And it’s true. Even when he had nothing, he had Bucky. Now he’s on a quest of his own, and it’s very close to unbearable because for a moment, he’d selfishly thought Bucky would stay with him. Where else would he go? On the agonizingly long flight to Wakanda, after T’Challa had unexpectedly offered refuge to them both, he’d almost felt content to be a fugitive, dizzy and aching all over as he was. Stupid, stupid.

_His mind must have short-circuited. No thoughts of the future. No fear, no worry. Nothing is there, just the feeling of Bucky’s body leaning on him heavily. Bucky’s too beaten up to care for keeping distance, and his only hand clutches at the stained and torn fabric of Steve’s costume, meaningless now that he’s given up his shield. It’s okay. They’re gonna be okay._

_“Could you disconnect it? Take it off?” Bucky suddenly murmurs, breaking through his daydreaming. “My arm. The metal one. Too damaged. Hurts.”_

_He hadn’t thought Bucky might have feeling in his metal arm. In the remnants of it, still joined to his nerve system._

_Oh god._

_“‘t’s fine,” Bucky rasps as Steve tries to dislodge it and fails and panics and tries again. “Steve, just leave it if you can’t… mmhm…”_

And just like Steve couldn’t imagine what Bucky had felt physically, he’d had no idea of what was going on in his head. How much it hurt.

 _Allow Barnes the dignity of choice,_ Peggy once had told him. And here they are, Bucky locked up from the world, according to his wish, and him still not knowing how to help.

But luckily, Steve Rogers is used to being an army of one, an army without a commander, set on accomplishing impossible tasks. Once he’d landed all alone beyond the Nazi lines to save his friend, with no sense of self-preservation and no sane plan either. It’s not much different now. He’ll cope on his own. He must.


	2. Rusted

Being superhuman has its downsides. He can’t get drunk. He can’t get high. Sex could be an option, but the mere thought of using someone as just a means to slip into oblivion for a short while…it’s revolting, to be honest. Making love should be an act of devotion, of mutual commitment. A physical expression of the desire to be united, to become one. Steve can’t bring himself to take it easier, like many people seem to do. He envies them sometimes, like he envies those who drink themselves senseless.

Boxing helps a bit. Running, too. It’s all about repetitive movements, living in the moment. Very much like loveless sex. Just a satisfying physical activity that makes you occupied, only you don’t have to worry that someone will get hurt. So Steve exhausts himself with jogging and punching a bag and pretends he does it to keep himself fit.

The thing is, he’s always fit. It’s ungrateful and perverse of him, but he misses the days when he wasn’t. God, he’d have his asthma back if only he had someone to sit by his side all night and berate him for not taking care of himself. Okay, not just someone. Bucky.

Steve does have other friends, very loyal friends, good people. But they all expect him to be sort of unbreakable. Sam _had_ sat by his bedside in the hospital, and Steve is grateful for that—for not having to wake up on his own then. But there are other mornings in a year, 364 of them with the exception of this one, when he opens his eyes into the realization that he’s alone and his friends are somewhere else, busy with their own lives, believing him to be okay because he’s the strong one.

After the dramatic escape from the Raft prison, Sam and Wanda are temporarily settled in Wakanda, thanks to His Majesty again. Mr. Lang aka Ant-Man has disappeared, and Steve has no idea of where he’s heading. Clint has left to join his family. Tony probably won’t give up Clint’s secret farmhouse he’s been invited to while on the Ulthron mission, so it must be okay.

When Steve resolves the issue with Bucky…and yes, it’s _when_ , not if, he won’t say if…then maybe he’ll be able to get them all back to a normal life. Judging by the lack of information on Captain America becoming a criminal, the officials will hardly want a public scandal. If he plays his cards right, in exchange for turning himself over quietly he may be able to secure a pardon for Bucky and the rest of his team.

But for now, Steve can’t do much for them and they shouldn’t be bothered with his problems.

Jogging it is, then, instead of having a shoulder to cry on, literally or not. And boxing, lots of boxing, until his knuckles hurt, despite the protective handwraps. Sometimes he feels like hitting something harder than a punch bag. A wall, for instance. Abrasions heal fast. He can do it pretty often without anyone noticing. Not that someone looks at his hands too closely nowadays.

Piles of books on hypnosis and neurolinguistic programming keep growing in his tiny apartment, rising from the floor like some alien form of life. He couldn’t have trespassed on T’Challa’s hospitality forever—the king has done enough for Bucky already, and Sam, and Wanda too; Steve’s life shouldn’t be of their concern. But Steve doesn’t feel like leaving Wakanda yet. And while he doesn’t hold guard at Bucky’s cryogenic chamber for days on end, he feels better knowing he could come to rescue if something happens. Besides, he’s not sure he could leave for the U.S. or Europe unless he faked his ID. He’s probably on the list of most wanted criminals there, though he hadn’t discovered any public information about it yet. So he’d found himself a cheap place on the outskirts of Bernin Zana, the capital of Wakanda. Just like most big industrial cities, it’s got not only skyscrapers, but also the less presentable bits that aren’t ever shown on postcards. Funny enough, his neighborhood feels very much like the old Brooklyn, with dark side alleys and cheap diners. Not exactly a slum, but not a prime spot either. He likes it, as much as he’s capable of liking anything these days.

He’s currently unemployed and has no access to his army pension because he can’t let his whereabouts be detected. He’s only got his very modest savings at his disposal, an anonymous account he’d thought he might need some day. Steve had never spent much money, though he hadn’t earned much either, just enough to pay his bills and buy groceries when not on a mission, and that had been fine by him. In the past few years, he’d got used to not worrying about his finances, to the point of carelessness, so his back-up funds are rather scarce. He’d started laying money aside only after the S.H.I.E.L.D.-turned-out-to-be-Hydra incident. Just in case.

He needs to live sparingly, stretching the amount of money he’s got for as long as possible so that he has free time for his main occupation—working on Bucky’s deprogramming. Fortunately, he’s good at living on minimum rations and he only needs to pay the rent and buy more and more books, though he tries to find free materials when he can. It’s funny how much you can find on the Internet if you look in the right places. Or the wrong ones.

The number of people giving him orders is down to about zero, and the leftovers of his life are entirely his responsibility to handle. Sometimes he feels his head reeling because of it, like he needs something to hold on to but grabs empty air instead and there’s nobody who cares. He gives brisk commands to himself then. _Buy groceries. Eat. Continue reading. Make coffee. Continue reading. Make coffee. Continue reading. Sleep._ He’s so pathetic for needing this, but it’s a comforting illusion of order. Robotic routine that makes him grounded.

Sometimes he forgets about the first two necessities and the last one, too, until he finds himself dizzy and barely able to process the information he keeps pushing into his mind. He’s of no use like that, so after a hasty meal and a few hours of dozing he always punishes himself to make the lesson sink in. Sometimes it’s just an extra round of exercises, sometimes a white-hot knife pressed to the underside of his arm.

His body heals too fast.

It still feels like a shield around his former self, a shell of muscles protecting a pitifully fragile core. It’s a machine of flesh and bone he’s in charge of, but it’s not really him, like the Iron Man’s suit. He should have gotten used to his enhanced strength, height and looks, like Bucky had gotten used to his metal arm, but he’d been an asthmatic weakling for too long to forget the feeling of it.

While he’d fought, and been useful, it hadn’t bothered him much, because that was why he’d agreed to be transformed—to be of use to his country, to people who couldn’t defend themselves against evil. But now he’s on his own, in a world he doesn’t belong to, in a body that isn’t his.

He prays for Bucky to get well and live a life he deserves. He doesn’t believe it helps, not anymore, but he prays anyway, like a good Catholic boy he had once been. He doesn’t ask anything for himself because one miracle will be enough.

When Sam comes to visit, Steve tries his best to be social and to sound optimistic, a smile plastered on his face. He’s been a public persona long enough to fake self-confidence he doesn’t possess. Maybe Sam isn’t completely convinced Steve is absolutely fine, but at least he doesn’t seem to think things are too bad either.

When Sam leaves, Steve feels nothing but relief.

He’s infinitely tired and disappointed with his own so-called intelligence, corrosion of self-doubt starting to settle in because he hasn’t found a cure for Bucky yet. Will he ever?


	3. Seventeen

Sharon Carter comes to Wakanda along with some delegation to King T’Challa, and Steve feels so wretchedly lonely that he’s reckless enough to contact her.

They sit in a small café and she draws lines on the white tablecloth with her pink-painted nail. Funny how she prefers pastel, natural-looking colors while her aunt favored dramatic red.

It almost looks like a date.

“I don’t have clearance to see your files,” she says apologetically. “I suppose they suspected I helped you, so… But officially, no one’s even looking for you. I’m sure if you returned, there wouldn’t be a legal process. It’s in everyone’s best interests not to make the matter public. Captain America is too much of an iconic figure for that.”

He smiles sadly. “We both know how many things are done unofficially.”

“So you’re not coming back?”

“Not now. Not yet.”

There’s not much to say after that. Steve doesn’t want Sharon to feel like he just wanted information, but he doesn’t know how to act around her, feeling like a clumsy teenager. She was eager to meet him. Maybe she thought there would be something…something more than just talking over coffee. After their kiss, it’s only logical of her to expect the next move on his part.

She’ll probably say yes. He doesn’t ask. Let her think he’s too shy.

She’s pretty and brave and clever, a rare combination of values, and Steve tells himself he should feel something towards her, but in truth, he doesn’t. Nothing more than sympathy of a friend. Love doesn’t seem to work like that, igniting automatically when you meet someone who deserves to be loved.

He’d asked her out once because at the time, he’d thought he _should_ start dating. Anyone, really. Natasha had kept nagging him about it too persistently, and it had felt almost like an obligation—to start a normal life, to fake interest in mundane things, and then maybe it would grow on him. But it hadn’t worked out. He’d approached Sharon after Peggy’s funeral for a different reason, simply because he’d been lost and disoriented. And when she’d helped him and Bucky…it had kind of happened, that kiss. He’d felt her expecting it. He’d felt Sam expecting it. And Bucky had watched him, too. For a moment, Steve had been almost proud of himself, like a teenager high on his first conquer— _here he is, kissing a beautiful dame before rushing to save the world_. Then a wave of guilt had hit him, for messing with Sharon like that.

Then he hadn’t had time to think about it at all.

Now they sit opposite each other in awkward silence. They could have sex. Steve feels ashamed for considering it for a second. Sharon deserves more than a clumsy one-night stand with someone who doesn’t even really want her.

“I should go,” she says finally, and he nods.

He wants to say, “I’m sorry”, but the words choke him. He’d failed her, too, in a way.

After Sharon is gone, Steve sits there, staring into the blank whiteness of the tablecloth. He feels rotten. He shouldn’t have called her. He shouldn’t have.

“What a scene. Captain America clawing his superarm with his supernails. How very dramatic. I get it didn’t go well with Sharon?”

There’s a short man in a gray suit standing beside his table. Steve realizes with a pang that he knows him. Everett-something from Berlin. Deputy task force commander. Steve tries to recall his full name, but in vain. His mind had been too preoccupied with the sight of Bucky being taken away in manacles to pay attention to minor details, like someone threatening him with extradition.

Everett smiles at him—a slow, lazy smile. Not unpleasant, but somewhat sleazy. Steve dimly wonders why it doesn’t make him worried. Maybe he’s too worn-out to be anxious.

He’d expected he would get caught one day. He’d just thought he would be able to help Bucky first. Another failure on his part. Unless he escapes right now. Everett seems to be on his own, there’s no one to stop him…

Everett tuts. “What’s the hurry? Sit down, Rogers. What were you thinking, meeting with poor Sharon like this, in public. Unlike you, she has a _career_.”

Steve sits down. Everett takes a place opposite him and leans in close, like they’re best friends talking. “I see you care about Sharon. It’s good. It would be a shame if she got thrown out, isn’t it?” He waves to a waitress. “A glass of water please. No bubbles. A slice of lemon.”

Steve is puzzled. This man doesn’t exactly threaten to out Sharon…but he could. The question is, why wouldn’t he? Has he called for reinforcement before approaching? If not, does it mean he’s not going to inform his colleagues about having seen Sharon with the runaway Captain America? What does he want?

Everett smiles at him again. “Show me your hand. This one. Palm up.”

Steve reluctantly puts his left hand onto the table, for Everett to see the nail marks on his skin. The scratches already start fading. Everett delicately traces along one of them with his own nail, looking Steve right in the eyes, his head tilted to the side. “It must be very convenient that there’s no evidence left, whatever you do to your body… Or someone else does… No, don’t move. I didn’t say you could.” Another line, and this time his nail digs deeper. “It’s nothing compared to what could happen to you were you caught. Psychological evaluation. No official trial. Locked down in a medical facility. And then most unpleasant things might await an unstable patient with self-destructive tendencies. Electroshock treatment. Injections. But we don’t want that for Captain America, do we? It would be so sad.”

“What do _you_ want?” Steve asks. Everett’s thumb now circles his wrist, and it’s more disconcerting than painful.

“Hmm. Let me think. What would I want with the infamous Steve Rogers? Actually, I want to help you, strange as it may sound. I studied you a lot after Zemo had been captured. I know how you feel.” His other hand slides under the table and squeezes Steve’s knee sympathetically. It’s an unexpectedly intimate gesture. A friendly gesture. “It must be so unfair, to be condemned as a criminal just for trying to do the right thing. Your work had been a gift to mankind, and yet here you are, betrayed by your own country. I’m so sorry I can’t change that, but at least you saved your friend. It was remarkably selfless of you to risk your reputation for his sake. You’ll do anything for him, Rogers, won’t you? For Bucky?”

A soothing tap against Steve’s hand. There’s a crease between Everett’s brows—it’s very much like Steve’s reflection in the mirror when he’s concerned. Is Everett concerned for him? It’s strange that at first Steve thought him sleazy and unpleasant. The man isn’t like that at all.

“I wonder if he appreciates it,” Everett says sadly. “Is he around much?” He must read a shift in the expression on Steve’s face, for he adds, “No, he isn’t, is he? He must be here in Wakanda, though, and you keep as close to him as possible, right? It would be devastating if they demanded his extradition, too. Bucky, he wouldn’t take incarceration easy, broken as he is.”

Steve’s heart thumps, but he registers the word ‘they’. So Everett is on his side, then?

“Look,” Steve mutters, “I’m not sure…What’re you getting at?”

“I see you’re nervous. You have many reasons to be.” Everett’s tone is most compassionate. “Just take a good look at me. I’m here to take all your worries away, as many as you have. Just allow me to do it, Rogers.” A soothing tap against Steve’s hand again. “I saw you scratching yourself. It’s something physical that makes you zone out, forget things. I’ll give you that. I’ll be glad to be of help. You won’t like it at first, but I bet you didn’t like your hand being scratched raw either, and yet you did it. Is it the way you cope? It must be hard, coping on your own. It must feel very, very lonely. So you’re lucky I’m here now. Let go. Let me take control.”

The waitress comes with a glass of water, and Steve suddenly realizes that Everett’s hand still rests on his knee. It’s uncomfortable. It’s inappropriate. He feels treacherous tightness in his jeans. But Everett doesn’t move, and Steve doesn’t protest, though the girl casts an odd glance at them. Steve lets it happen, like kids accept that grown-ups know what’s better for them.

He lets it happen when Everett takes a seat on the leather cushion beside him, very close, too close as if it’s too small for them both. Thigh to thigh. Steve suddenly finds himself blushing, like he’s a boy on a first date…with a more experienced and older partner. He’s at a loss whether he likes it. He doesn’t. He does.

He lets it happen when Everett unzips his jeans and takes a handful of what’s inside. Steve’s body reacts to the touch, viscerally, and it’s shameful, it shouldn’t be like that. Steve never thought…he never wanted…or maybe he did…but not in public…not like this…

“Feels good, Rogers, huh?” Everett keeps whispering. “Feels nice?”

It’s been a while since someone touched him at all, for whatever reason. So Steve accepts it, stoically biting on an undignified whine. It takes some time, and yet it happens so quickly that he doesn’t even think of saying, “No, don’t.”

“Now it is polite to reciprocate,” Everett tells him a few agonizing minutes later, wiping his hand over Steve’s jeans. And that’s how they end up in a cab, heading for Steve’s apartment. Everett’s palm rests on Steve’s thigh, casually, very close to his groin. Steve finds he’s hard again, but just takes it as a given, as if in a trance. Does he want this? It looks like he does. Sex _is_ distracting.

“You live in a cupboard,” Everett declares as he examines Steve’s place, very small indeed. “Oh well. At least there’s a bed. It’ll do.”

He quickly scans through the titles of Steve’s numerous books on hypnosis and NLP, and for some reason they make him chuckle, but Steve doesn’t get to ask what’s so amusing about them because Everett orders, “Strip.”

Steve lingers, and Everett says, with a hint of steel in his voice, “Now, Rogers.”

As Steve stands opposite him, uncomfortably aware of his nudity, his cock bobbing up in an interested manner despite his discomfort, there’s a strange look on Everett’s face, like he’s gloating. But no, he just takes pleasure in what he sees, that’s all, for he says, “Let me tell you, you’re a gorgeous sight. Turn around. Oh yes, the rear view is just as good. It’s nice that you don’t talk much. We’ll get along just fine. But in case you’d want to say something in the process, you may address to me as ‘sir’. We both know you need discipline, Rogers.”


	4. Daybreak

The next day, Steve doesn’t go jogging. He doesn’t cook breakfast, though it’s a routine he tries to maintain, cooking hot food. He doesn’t do anything. He can’t force himself to. He lies on the crumpled sheets, curled on the side, and stares into space.

He heals quickly, but the dull ache is still there, between his legs. He doesn’t check if there’s any tearing. It’ll be all right soon, so why even bother getting up.

Everett is gone, but he’d told Steve to wait for his call. He’d been…considerate. He’d let Steve come, too, or more exactly, made him come, several times. Steve can’t say he’d enjoyed himself, not really, though orgasming is generally considered enjoyable. It’s all a bit mixed up.

Steve’s body is quite capable of appreciating carnal pleasures… His body, but not _him_.

He’d never given much consideration to—um—the physical aspect of relationships, not even with Peggy. He’d thought of dancing with her and kissing her…and then his fantasies skipped to a wedding and to living together in a nice little place of their own, with flower pots on windowsills, bright curtains, and a shaggy dog dozing on a rug at his feet while he’d be drawing Peggy’s smiling face. Funny, he’d envisioned this dog and the sunlight in Peggy’s hair more vividly than the joys of married life. Or maybe to him these _were_ the joys of married life—having a family, a home to always return to. He’d often imagined Bucky settling in the neighborhood, with a family of his own, a pretty wife and children. Dreaming of Bucky by his side, content and grinning just like before the war, had made the picture complete. They would all be so happy then… Bucky hadn’t seemed to be a marrying type, but fantasies aren’t necessarily realistic. They’re meant to be soothing, no matter how trite.

Anyhow, he’d never thought he wanted _this_. A hand in his pants, awkward nakedness, something meaty nudging between his buttocks. But his body hadn’t seemed to mind. A man or a woman, or even a sex toy, it would have been all the same. Enough stimulation in the right places—and he’d spilled ejaculate all over the sheets.

Does it mean he’s depraved, deep down in his heart, for having allowed this to happen?

It’s not like Steve’s freaking out because it’s a man he’d been with. Hadn’t he felt so empty, devoid of any emotion, he’d certainly be surprised with himself, but he wouldn’t judge someone else for a same-sex relationship. He might be old-fashioned about some things, and yet he’s not a hypocrite; he’d like to think so. Love comes in all shapes, and it’s still love. But what they had done…what Everett had done to him…it hadn’t been an act of love at all. Just...fucking. Steve can’t find a less rude word for it.

But it had made him stop thinking for a while, his body too much aware of physical sensations to let his mind wander. So maybe it’s the kind of sex he could have, with him being used by someone, not vice versa. It’s honest, at least. Just sex. Just following instincts. Nothing personal.

It’s something new that Steve needs to get used to, that’s all.

When Everett calls, Steve tells him he can stop over, though just a few seconds ago he considered not picking up the phone at all. There was a nagging feeling that urged him to test what would happen if he didn’t go with Everett’s wishes, but it dies down when he hears Everett’s voice.

So he ends up kneeling at Everett’s feet on the newly mopped up linoleum, coarse pubic hair sticking into his face, Everett rhythmically pushing into his mouth, and a firm hand gripping his nape so he won’t back off. He _wants_ to back off, he _could_ back off—Everett is hardly a threat to him, but there’s something numbingly fascinating in being used as an inanimate object, an automaton with a hole for dumping sperm instead of a mouth. A plastic doll of Captain America, live size.

Steve tries his best not to gag and not to choke on his own saliva. And then he tries his best not to retch.

“Good job, soldier,” Everett praises him and swabs a dribble of come from Steve’s lip with a finger. “Inept, but we’ll work on that. I bet you’re a quick learner. Come on, get up.”

It’s a relief that Everett didn’t dislike it as much as Steve did. Maybe it takes time to adjust to each other. Steve’s eyes are still watering, and he automatically presses the heels of his hands to them, briefly, to make it stop, and blinks back the hot moisture.

It’ll take a while for Everett to manage another erection, but he’d brought _things_ with him. Toys, he says. To pass the time, he says. They don’t look like toys. At first Steve doesn’t get where some of them go, and when he does, he can’t help a hint of panic in his voice when he protests, “They won’t fit in there.”

Everett laughs. “Oh, of course they will. It’s so endearing that you blush like a maiden.”

It makes Steve flush even more, but Everett starts rubbing his palm soothingly, in mesmerizing circles, and it’s comforting.

“Just relax. Let go,” he says. “I’ll take good care of you.”

And Steve tries to do as he’s told. It is what so many people do and it feels hypocritical to be ashamed of it.

This time, there’s lubricant, not just spit, so the stretching doesn’t hurt much. It just feels weird and invasive when three fingers rub him from the inside, in places where nobody else has touched him.

“Relax,” Everett keeps crooning. “I’ll take care of your tight little hole. What a shame it’s so unused. It needs exercising, or you’ll never learn to enjoy yourself properly. You’ll thank me later. I wonder why nobody taught you anal play in the army. At least before the serum. Didn’t your fellow soldiers like you, back there in the training camp? Uh?”

“Not much,” Steve manages to breathe out as Everett persistently kneads a sensitive spot inside of him.

He’d never thought of them not liking him _this way_. But yeah, nobody really liked him. Almost nobody.

Fortunately, Everett’s manipulations are distracting enough for him not to dwell on it. He’s a prisoner inside his body that’s being subjected to unfamiliar sensations, not all of them pleasant. He’s just a means to satisfy someone else. He’s nothing. And it dawns on him that it’s fine.


	5. Furnace

In a matter of days, things progress to more elaborate _games_ , as Everett calls it.

“Why waste time,” he says. His mission is Wakanda is a temporary thing, and Steve can’t say if he’s glad about it or not. Sharon will leave, too, and she doesn’t have to know. Surely Everett won’t tell her?

Handcuffs are more like symbolic restraints. Steve could probably snap the chain in two, but he doesn’t.

“You wanted a distraction,” Everett tells him half affectionately, half ominously. “I’ll provide you with distraction.”

The first blow against his already sore perineum makes him jerk and bite into the gag. He’s naked on the bed, hands twisted behind his back, ass high up and legs spread uncomfortably wide. Everett seems to have a complex about his height, so he always prefers Steve kneeling or bent like this.

“Shh.” Everett strokes his thigh and playfully ruffles the fine dusting of hair in the groove between Steve’s butt cheeks. “Ready for some more now?”

Steve fidgets awkwardly, trying to balance on his shoulder, arms slowly going numb, and that’s when Everett hits again, hard, catching him unawares. 

“I thought you must have more resolve.” Everett lightly taps the leather strap right against his hole a few times. “But I don’t mind you being vocal, not at all. By all means, feel free to cry out all you want. I don’t think your neighbors will be too disturbed. The perks of living in a dubious area.”

It’s not the worst pain Steve had experienced. He’d gritted his teeth and toughed it out through so much nastier aches than this. He’d walked wounded, he’d fought wounded. He won’t cry anymore, so Everett won’t taunt him.

But in a matter of minutes Steve can’t think of anything at all, not even of why he’s doing this or why he should keep quiet. It’s just the rhythmic, loud _slap! slap! slap!_ —and his own undignified whimpers muffled by the gag. Animalistic sounds, barely human. He can’t control them. He can’t control anything. It hurts. It hurts. It’s how it should be.

He doesn’t register the moment when it stops.

“Come on, look at me, Rogers.” Everett brushes the sweat-dampened fringe from Steve’s forehead, crouched by his side. “Gosh, those innocent blue eyes of yours! You’re not gonna cry, are you? Oh dear. You _are_ crying. Does it mean I was good at distracting you, or do we need to work some more on the matter? I think I like the second option more.”

Everett vanishes from Steve’s sight. The mattress squeaks under his weight. He prods Steve’s swollen anus with a finger, pushes down hard onto the puffy, inflamed flesh. “Nice and tight again, almost virginal.” He strokes a circle around the abused hole, and it twitches apprehensively. “Oh well, if you’re inviting...”

Steve hears the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Everett spreads his hole with both thumbs, none too gently, and spits into him. Steve should squirm in disgust, but he finds that he doesn’t care, not anymore. He huffs into the gag as Everett pushes into him, bare flesh into bare flesh, rough and brutal.

 _Funny, this_ , a distant thought flickers in his mind. During the war the chorus girls used to say he was a gentleman, some of them clearly disappointed. No one would call him a gentleman _now_.

Lodged deep, Everett scratches a nail over the tautly pulled skin over Steve’s rim, and it makes Steve’s hips jerk involuntarily.

“Yeah, that’s a good soldier. Work your ass for me. Come on, move, Rogers.”

Steve can feel Everett’s coarse pubic hair scraping against his tender perineum as he moves back and forth, at least tries to, in the uncomfortable position he’s in. Every friction burns, even while it’s slow. But Everett gets impatient. He grips Steve’s hips with both hands and starts pumping into him hard and fast.

When Everett finally shoots the hot sperm into him, Steve almost whimpers, relieved it’s over. Everett pulls out and paints Steve’s buttocks with the last drops of his come.

“Oh, sticky,” he laughs and wipes his hands against the sheets. “Dirty boy.”

More slimy mess is drooling from Steve’s gaping hole. He tries to clench, and Everett cackles again. “No, no, stay like that, don’t move. Wait just a sec. I’ll wash myself and come back.”

Water splashing in the tiny bathroom. It takes a while. Then some rustling follows. Everett hastily digs through his scattered clothes. “Ah! Here it is.”

A shutter sound. The camera on Everett’s phone?

“No,” Steve wants to say, but just makes a funny noise into his gag.

“Don’t worry, I won’t post it or something,” Everett says dismissively and makes another shot. “It will be a nice reminder of you while I’m away, that’s all. It would be fun if everyone saw Captain America like this, especially your friends, but we don’t want it, do we?”

Then Everett, still casually naked, comes to take off the gag. Finally. Steve’s jaw aches. He should say something, but nothing comes to mind except for, “Thank you.”

This seems to amuse Everett even more. “Oh, you’re most welcome. Next time we’ll think of a more active pastime for your mouth, too. Such lush red lips as yours shouldn’t be ignored.”

It’s disturbing, to be praised like that. For his looks, for his…body parts.

Everett unlocks the handcuffs and rubs Steve’s wrists where they are chafed. Unexpectedly, to Steve it seems more intimate than what they did, a gesture of tenderness, and he almost sobs with gratitude. He wishes they could stay like this forever, but it’s just a brief moment and then Everett slides off the bed again and starts dressing.

“I must take a leave,” he says. “There’s work to do. Pity, though. It would be fascinating to watch how fast you heal. Maybe not too fast? I suppose it might be uncomfortable, performing…um…some natural bodily functions. At least for a while.”

It’s okay. Steve will solve this problem by not eating. For a while.

Everett starts whistling a cheerful tune while unhurriedly buttoning his shirt. Steve just lies there, listless, watching him. He wants Everett to finally leave. He wants him to stay and rub his wrists some more, which is utterly pathetic.

But in the end, he is alone anyway.

It’s a dull, mundane process—healing. He’s been through it so many times, though injuries may differ. And usually on his own, like now. Steve knows he’ll be fine. He doesn’t know if he wants to.

Steve closes his eyes and sighs into the stale pillow. He’s lying naked over the crumpled sheets, face down, and has no desire neither to get up, nor to settle more comfortably. His muddled thoughts go drifting. Back in time, back to what he craves so much.

_A hand on his forehead. “Stevie, what have you done to yourself again, pal?”_

But the precious memory ripples and Steve hastily forces it away before it’s tainted and ruined. It’s better not to think of Bucky, not now, or he’ll end up imagining incomprehension and disappointment on his face. Bucky wouldn’t say anything, having seen Steve like this, used and torn up like an overeager slut. Of course he wouldn’t. They would still be friends. But Bucky would never look the same at him, and the chaste affinity between them would be gone.

No easy touches anymore, no hair ruffling, no playful slaps on a shoulder. Not without thinking of nakedness and sex and snuff porn.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers brokenly into the pillow. “Bucky.”

Guilt. Shame. Loneliness. It’s a slow burning that eats his life away, and he never heals from this.


	6. Nine

Time grows into something relative. Days and nights melt into a grayish mass. Once, Steve realizes that it has been hours, the whole day actually, since he studied something deprogramming-related. Maybe because deep inside he knows by now that it’s useless. He’s useless.

“Bucky, I’m sorry,” he says aloud, his voice hoarse from disuse, but there’s no one to hear how contrite he is. In the evening, Everett comes, and it’s almost gratitude that floods over Steve. He can’t stand being alone with his betrayal.

Sam calls, but Steve can’t force himself to have a meaningless chat. Sam has a job with T’Challa, something very similar to what he’d used to do—he’d become a consultant for Wakandan ex-military. Good for him. But Steve has nothing important to say in response, nothing new.

How do you tell someone who looks up to you, “I think I’m falling apart”?

Everett, at least, does all the talking. He doesn’t mind if Steve is silent or responds merely with incoherent groans and cries. It’s simple and easy while it lasts. Just plain bodily reactions, too intense to leave room for thoughts.

They try sandpaper. They try enemas. They try chili pepper. Or more exactly, Everett does all this and Steve lets it happen, as always.

One day, after their routine activities, Everett says, fumbling with his tie, “Oh well. No matter how much I want to stay in this welcoming country for longer, duty calls me back to Berlin.”

He sounds cheerful, not displeased in the slightest. Steve doesn’t want to let it show he suddenly feels relief. It’s totally unfair to Everett. Steve knows he should be thankful for the experience. It’s not Everett’s fault if something wasn’t the way Steve had expected. It’s not his fault if Steve doesn’t know what he wants.

Maybe he conceals his emotions too well because Everett coos, “Don’t be so upset, poor dear. That doesn’t mean we should part. You could come with me. Of course it will be hard to make them drop the charges, but you could stay under home arrest for a while, not in prison. I could vouch for you. You’ll be under surveillance of course, and probably restrained, but it’s such a trifle compared to what would await you in jail. And I’ll be visiting you, frequently. Ah, maybe you think of your friend. You couldn’t possibly leave him, no way. How about we get him to Europe, too? He’ll need medical supervision, surely—cryo’s a tricky thing, but I’m certain this could be arranged.”

Taken unawares, Steve stares at him in horror he can’t hide this time. His mind quickly supplies him with a series of pictures. Bucky on a surgical slab, strapped to it, doctors pocking at him with needles and technicians digging into his artificial arm. And there’s a soundtrack to it, Bucky’s barely audible voice, _“Sergeant. Three-two-five-five-seven—”_

“No?” Everett asks, carefree. “Would you rather he stays where he is? In a lab at the Warrior Falls?”

“How do you—” Steve begins and cuts himself off.

“How do I know? _You_ told me.”

Steve shakes his head. He didn’t. He couldn’t. But Everett _does_ know. What should he do now? Does Everett have the right to demand Bucky’s extradition? Is it a threat? He’d never made any open threats before. Maybe he just genuinely wants Steve to come with him?

Everett pats his cheek. “Oh, the precious expression on this pretty face of yours. You’re _thinking_. Don’t, Rogers. You’re not good at it. You bring trouble to all of your friends when you start planning things. I wonder how you managed commanding a squad during the war. Maybe it’s the ice that affected your intellect. Seventy years in deep freeze…uh, nasty. At least your other body parts seem to have recovered better than your brain. Anyway, consider my offer. A very, very polite offer. And do it very, very quickly. It’ll be better if you cooperate. It’s easy, doing what you’re told. You know that. Everyone will be happy and safe. Bucky, Sharon. Everyone.”

Maybe he sees a sparkle of rebellious desperation in Steve’s eyes because he adds affectionately, “Don’t attempt at anything stupid, Rogers. If something happens to me, say accidentally, neither the Warrior Falls will be a secure place for your friend, nor poor Sharon will have any chance at a promotion. So you’d better be sure to keep me very safe and very happy. Agreed? That’s a good boy.” Another pat on Steve’s cheek. “Start packing things, then. Leave all those books, they’re too heavy and too intellectual for you. And after you’re done, have a good rest. We’re taking a long flight tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.”

With that, he leaves. Steve waits a few minutes after the door closes after him and then starts putting on his clothes. His hands are shaking.

It feels like the countdown from ten to zero had started, and he’d already missed the first beat.

Steve dials Sam’s number. “We need to relocate Bucky. It’s urgent.”


	7. Benign

To say it’s a surprise to find Bucky standing on his doorstep, in a gray oversized hoodie, is to say nothing at all.

“They fixed your arm,” is the first thing Steve blurts out instead of a greeting.

“Yeah, from the scraps of what was left of it.” Bucky flexes, then unflexes his metal fingers, covered with a glove. Rotates his shoulder as if testing it once again. “It’s not exactly the same. No red star this time. Less strength. Not sure if I’ll be able to catch your shield.”

“It’s all right. I don’t have one anymore.”

Steve doesn’t mean it to sound bitter, but maybe he fails because Bucky’s face grows unsure and contrite.

“I’m sorry about that. Do you…do you mind me coming?”

“Of course not.”

He _does_ mind, he wanted Bucky to stay as far from him as possible, but he can’t bring himself to say this.

Bucky gives him a brief, lopsided smile, so unlike his usual grin, bright and smug. “You’re not just being polite, are you? Well, even if you are, I’m already here, so…will you let me in?”

“Oh. Yes.” Steve hastily steps out of his way and closes the door behind him.

Bucky takes a look around. But there’s nothing particular to look at, really. “Very much like my safe hole in Bucharest,” he says. “Have you found yourself an exact copy on purpose?”

Steve shrugs. “I suppose such places grow all by themselves in every country, like fungus. It’s international.” He can’t but ask something. “Did it…did it hurt when they attached it?” he nods at Bucky’s new arm.

“Nah. Only the first time, but it was just a glitch. They fixed it in no time. I’m a successful experiment once again.”

Oh Bucky. His bravado is so familiar, so much like the pre-war James Buchanan Barnes that Steve reaches out his hand on an impulse, to touch him, to comfort him, but stops abruptly. Bucky doesn’t like to be touched, not now. Steve gets it, the need to keep distance.

There’s an awkward pause before Bucky says, “Now that we’re done with small talk, will you explain what the hell is going on? I’m suddenly out of cryo and your friend Sam says they have to _relocate_ me. Like I’m a lab specimen that goes from one fridge to another. Here’s a new arm for you—and then just sit and wait to be moved, like a good boy. Maybe do the shaving if you’re so inclined. But god forbid you go looking for Steve because it might be _dangerous_.”

Steve cringes. “Sorry for the ‘relocate’ thing. They couldn’t move the cryo-chamber with you inside of it, they had to wake you up. I know it must have been an unpleasant surprise, but you couldn’t stay there. The place has been compromised. How did you find me, by the way? Surely, Sam wouldn’t tell you…”

Bucky gives an indignant huff. “Like it’s a problem for me to find _anyone_. Don’t worry, I didn’t torture your precious Sam to get your address. Just pick-pocketed him to take a look at his phone. He hasn’t even noticed.”

“Is it one of your supersoldier skills, pick-pocketing?”

“More like a remnant of the good old days in Brooklyn. I’ve never been a saint, Stevie. Don’t look at me like that. And don’t try to divert. Why all this fuzz? Why am I not to see you?”

Steve sighs, frustrated. “Of course you did what you were told not to. I should have known better.”

“Yeah, you should have. So?”

Fortunately for Steve, his phone rings this very moment. It’s Sam. His call buys Steve a few minutes as he explains that yes, he knows Bucky went missing because he’s right here. No, it’s okay. For now. Bucky will be back soon.

When he ends the call, Bucky still looks at him expectantly.

“I did a very stupid thing,” Steve says.

“ _That_ I can believe,” Bucky comments when no further explanations follow. “What exactly?”

He can’t tell Bucky. He can’t. He wanted to help him so much, but betrayed him instead.

“Steve?” There’s concern in Bucky’s voice. “Are you…unwell?”

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s just…I let your whereabouts be known,” he says before he can change his mind. “It looks like I might do it again, so it’s better if I don’t know where you are. And it’s better if you leave. It’s not safe for you here.”

“What about you? What happened, exactly? Are _you_ safe?”

Steve shrugs. “I think so. It doesn’t matter.”

“Like hell it doesn’t!”

“Language,” Steve says automatically—and instantly regrets it.

“Sorry,” they both say simultaneously.

They still stand in the middle of the room, opposite each other, just like in Romania, only closer. There’s the same worn out, pained look on Bucky’s face. He doesn’t want to fight anymore, but he will for Steve’s sake if he thinks it’s Steve who’s in danger.

“Stevie,” he says quietly, anger drained out of him. “I didn’t want _this_ ,” he looks down at his new arm almost with repulsion. “I thought I’d rather politely decline. If something happens…it would be easier to incapacitate me when I’m one-armed. Not _easy_ ,” he adds without any smugness, “but still. But then I thought…if you’re in trouble…”

Steve knows he should explain himself to make Bucky leave. So he finally gathers his courage to mutter, maybe a bit indistinctly, not in his usual clear Captain America voice, “I slept with someone.”

“Congratulations,” Bucky says cautiously. “Does she have something to do with what’s going on?”

“Not she. He.” Steve avoids looking up, arms crossed defensively. “I think he did something to me. He says I told him where you were, but I don’t remember telling him, I _wouldn’t_ have told him, I wouldn’t have told anyone. I’m afraid he hypnotized me or something. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I just confirmed what he suspected… I don’t know. But somehow it happened. It shouldn’t have. I just felt so alone—” His voice falters on the last words most pathetically. It sounds like a self-excuse, and he hates himself for it. So he pulls himself together and says in a steady tone, “I let you down, and I’m sorry. I don’t think my place is being watched, but it’s better if you stay away from me. Just don’t go wandering on your own. Please. Let Sam and King T’Challa help you.”

Bucky doesn’t comment on Steve’s sexual preferences, although he seems perplexed. Instead, he asks what’s more important, “What about you? What you’re gonna do?”

“I’m responsible for what’s happened. I’ll take care of the problem.”

Bucky eyes him suspiciously. “And that means what, exactly?”

If Steve says he’s about to leave for Berlin tomorrow, with the one who’s probably a threat to them all, Bucky won’t let it happen. He’ll interfere and make it worse for himself. So it’s better to shrug enigmatically. “You know, I’m a man with a plan. But I need to know you’re safe.”

“I’m not going without you,” Bucky declares with a stubborn pout. He looks pointedly at a packed duffel bag on the floor. “You were leaving anyway. We could go together.” 

“Fine,” Steve says. When Bucky’s back in stasis, he won’t know anything. Steve will be able to return and do what he ought to do. He’d used to say they saved as many people as possible and sometimes that didn’t mean everybody. And if this time he’s not going to be among the saved… Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later.

As he closes the door behind him and Bucky, he takes the last look at his room, all those useless books on the shelves and on the floor. Another part of his life lost.

He’d always wanted what was best for Bucky, but as it turns out, it wasn’t enough. All his good intentions were rubbish.

Now he needs to make sure _Bucky’s_ good intentions towards him won’t turn into something equally stupid.


	8. Homecoming

“Not that way. This way.” Bucky nudges Steve upstairs. “The way I came. In case you’re under surveillance.”

A bit of climbing, jumping, balancing on concrete balustrades. They cross numerous deserted roofs, clamber up and down several rusty, trembling fire escapes—and finally they’re a few blocks away from Steve’s place.

“I should call Sam,” Steve says. “He’ll pick us up, get you to a secure facility—”

His head is somewhat fuzzy. He should have eaten something. He should have slept properly.

Bucky looks down into a dark alley where they can descend unnoticed. “As good an extraction point as any. But before you call him—” He sits down on a narrow ledge, beside a TV aerial. “I need to ask you something. A favor.”

As he led Steve forward, his movements were precise and calculated, but now he absently picks at the brick ledge with his metal fingers and doesn’t seem to notice it’s crumbling. He looks at the skyline where snowy mountain peaks rise behind a beehive of skyscrapers.

Steve sits down beside him and waits for him to continue. At last Bucky murmurs, “I don’t want to go back to cryo. I mean…I will. It’s the most sensible thing I can do about myself. And I know it’s trouble for everyone, fussing with me. But just a few days, what would it matter? Since I’m already out? If you have to fight, I’d rather be around until it’s over.”

“Look, I don’t think—”

“If we have to lie low, okay, fine. I’m good at hiding, too.”

Steve hates himself for saying, “Maybe it’s better not to delay things. Sam says everybody’s waiting for you.” He needs Bucky to be unaware of his plans, and that means pushing him into confinement.

Bucky chips out a large chunk from a brick. He looks miserable. “Steve. Please. I said it’s a _favor_. I’m well aware it’s a huge one.”

“If it’s because you’re worried—”

“I’m fucking afraid!” Bucky suddenly snaps. “Now scold me for language, but I’m afraid, okay? It’s too much, going out of cryo and then back in so soon! It was so much easier when they wiped me. I didn’t overthink it.”

“When they…electrocuted you?”

“Yes!”

Is artificial freezing any better than good old-fashioned freezing, except that it’s much faster? Did Bucky feel it, despite of being drugged and prepped for stasis? Steve can’t suppress a shudder. He’d never thought of it before, like he hadn’t thought of many other things.

_Bucky, trapped under the glass, unable to move…the cold creeping higher and higher up…_

This time, Steve can’t stop himself. He reaches out and pulls Bucky into an awkward hug. Bucky stiffens for a moment, but then wraps his arms around Steve’s midriff, first unsurely, then tighter, tighter, until it almost hurts. They sit like that for quite a while, silent, rocking slightly, Bucky’s face pressed into Steve’s shoulder and his hitching breath warm through the cotton of Steve’s t-shirt.

It feels like home, it feels like the old times, both good and bad, when they were comfort to each other, like friends, like brothers, like family. Oh Bucky. Oh god. It’s excruciating.

After a few minutes, Bucky mutters, “I’m a coward, I know.”

“No, you’re not,” Steve protests fervently. “I’d be terrified, too, I think. Anyone would.”

Bucky backs off to look Steve in the eyes. “All those books…you were trying to solve my problem?”

Steve feels exposed under his expectant gaze. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t good at it.”

Bucky gives him a feeble smile. “Who else would even try?” He unwraps himself from Steve’s hug, smoothens Steve’s t-shirt where it’s crumpled. “Let it be your way, Stevie. You always know best. It was just a moment of hesitation, let’s phrase it like that. Sounds better than a panic attack. So. Will you call Sam, tell him where we are?”

To his embarrassment, Steve hasn’t got a clue where they are now.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Okay, pass me your phone. I’ll talk to him. How come you don’t know the city? Have you even left your apartment in all these months?”

“Not much,” Steve admits.

“What did you do? I thought you’d save the world a couple of times by now.”

“The world managed perfectly well without my interference.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but like the words about his shield, it sounds too bitter and Bucky looks up at him, confused and concerned. But then Sam answers the call, and Bucky starts explaining where to find them.

Steve should feel relief. Everything is going as planned. Bucky will be safe, and that’s the most important thing now. And yet Steve can’t overcome a selfish longing to stay with Bucky for some more.

“They’ll be here in ten minutes tops,” Bucky says. The phone is still in his hands when it chimes with a message. Bucky lingers for a moment looking at the screen…then casts a quick glance at Steve, horror mixed with incredulity.

“Steve? What is it?”

There’s a picture, one of those Everett had taken, and a line that reads, “Change of plans. I’ll pick you up in two hours. Looking forward to getting you settled in Berlin.”

Steve feels a hot wave of blush rising up his neck and into his face. “Don’t you see for yourself?”

“It’s _him_ texting. The man…”

“The man I slept with, yeah.” It was bad enough, telling Bucky about his sex escapade, but knowing Bucky saw him like that, naked and used, makes Steve nauseous.

There’s a deep frown between Bucky’s brows like he can’t process the information. “Did you like it?”

He did. He didn’t. He doesn’t know.

“Not really,” he says. His voice sounds tired to his own ears. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter. He didn’t coerce me. I agreed to it. It just wasn’t my thing. What matters now is that he might be a danger to you, and I’ll take care of that.”

“You packed because you were going with him, not running away.”

It’s not a question, so Steve doesn’t bother denying what’s obvious. He just doesn’t say anything.

 _You start running, they’ll never let you stop_ , he once had said. So it always ended up in a fight, for him and Bucky. But this time he doesn’t know how to fight and he can’t run all the same.

“But you don’t want that,” Bucky says, less certainly.

“I didn’t want many things in my life. One more doesn’t make a difference.” It’s a wrong thing to say. He should continue to be strong and calm, but he’s too close to breaking down to control himself. Two hours. Only two hours. He won’t be able to accompany Bucky, he should return to his apartment right now. He needs to persuade Bucky to go with Sam, or else there might be trouble.

Bucky picks off another shred of brick, this time deliberately, and throws it down. It lands on something metallic, judging by the sound. When he speaks, it’s not what Steve’s expected.

“If that’s for my sake… if you’re doing something just to keep me safe… I need to tell you something. I should have told you this before they got me frozen, and I really tried to. I don’t think I’m worth it. No, Steve, let me… Don’t interrupt. You want to undo my brainwashing…but there’s something you should know—it wasn’t a hard thing to do. Maybe you think they tortured me, forced me. They didn’t. When the Soviets found me—there was a hospital—they tried to patch me up, but morphine didn’t work on me, like booze didn’t, not anymore. I don’t remember it all very clearly, but I was conscious, most of the time. I wished I wasn’t.”

“Bucky—”

“They found a translator, he explained they couldn’t sedate me, but they needed to. They had to take off my arm. He said they could try hypnosis. By that time I would have agreed to anything.”

“It’s not your fault. We were allies! How could you know they were Hydra? How could you know _we_ were Hydra too?”

Bucky blows out a frustrated breath. “Steve, that’s not the point. It wasn’t just me agreeing to it. I guess I was open for suggestions, and they saw it. They wanted me to be a good soldier, and _I_ wanted to be a good soldier, too. I forgot how to be anything else. I killed. I was good at it. It became a routine, long before Azzano.” He doesn’t look up, eyes fixed on his hands. “After some time, you stop thinking of what you wanted—defeating Nazis, going home a hero, then simply going home. You stop thinking of anything else except for what you do right now, like adjusting for wind before making a shot. You don’t see people anymore. You see targets. And you get praised for what you do. They say—your work has been a gift to mankind. You’re the greatest soldier in history. That kind of bullshit.”

That’s what Everett said. _Your work has been a gift to mankind_. Did he…was he… Or is it just a coincidence? Maybe that’s how people like Everett are taught to communicate with the military. A bit of a flattery never goes amiss. Fury called him the greatest soldier in history, too.

“I saw your files,” Steve says urgently, pushing these thoughts aside. “Recordings. I saw how they…I saw everything—injections, electroshocks. Don’t tell me they didn’t torture you.”

Bucky winces. “It was a medical procedure. First, because I sustained brain damage, so they said. Then it became a routine, too. It was maintenance. It took all the distracting thoughts out of my head, left me empty. I could focus on what was important. On the next mission. No fear, no regrets. If things got rough at times…that was because I could have done better, I could have been more efficient. I know what you’re going to say, but that’s how I saw it. The Winter Soldier—he was just a perfected version of me before I fell off that train, or a worsened version. It doesn’t take much effort to break what’s already broken.”

Steve repeats stubbornly, “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s of no importance if it’s my fault or not. What I want to say—I’m not the person you knew, not your buddy, not your Bucky from Brooklyn, and I changed long before I fell. Don’t you get that?”

“Bucky, no one left the war unscathed. We did nasty stuff. We compromised. Sometimes in ways that made us not sleep so well. We all changed.”

“ _You_ didn’t.”

Steve can’t help a laugh. “Come on, look at me and say it again.”

“I’m not talking about muscles and stuff. You’re still you. A damn martyr. They showed me a newspaper: Captain America, the Valkyrie, a tragic loss for the whole nation. You found yourself another grenade to throw yourself onto.”

“Um. Peggy told you about that grenade?”

“Of course Peggy told me. So proud of you, damn her too. If you hadn’t been so tall already, I would have punched you. What if it wasn’t a fake—”

Steve shrugs. “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

“I still might punch you now,” Bucky warns him. “And I’ve got a metal hand, mind. Why are you always like that? Like your own life doesn’t matter compared to others?”

“Maybe because it’s true?”

“Well it mattered to me!”

They glare at each other, speechless, wound up. Steve needs to put it into words, what he wants to know the most—how can Bucky say he’s changed and still care about him? Is it just because Steve had always been Bucky’s only anchor to his pre-war self?

But Steve’s phone chimes—bad timing, as always. It’s Sam. He’s waiting.

“Will you still come with me?” Steve asks.

Bucky sighs. “Of course I will. I always do.”

They get down a creaking and shaking fire escape ladder, jump onto a trash bin—two loud thuds—and onto the pavement. There’s a black jeep at the end of the narrow alley. Its door opens, and Sam comes out and waves at them.

“Everything will be fine,” Steve says, but he can’t force himself to look back at Bucky.

Suddenly metal fingers press on the side of his neck, squeeze hard. It’s fast. Steve goes light headed in a few seconds, thrashing in Bucky’s hold. Sam’s cry sounds distant, and so does Bucky’s whisper, “Sorry.”


	9. One

When Steve opens his eyes, a sense of déjà vu hits him. Sam is sitting by his bedside, only there’s no sound of Marvin Gaye’s “Trouble Man” playing and Steve is fully clothed.

“Bucky?” is the first word Steve breathes out, cold panic flooding his chest. Is he gone? Where is he?

He tries to sit up too rapidly and feels dizzy for a moment.

“Whoa! Careful.” Sam helps him to stay upright. “Are you okay, man?”

“What happened?”

“I hoped you’d tell me. We need your version. James knocked you out. He says he stopped you from sacrificing yourself to a person of dubious morals who blackmailed you and maybe hypnotized you. Is it true?”

The clock on the bedside table shows that it’s too late to meet with Everett. “Something like that,” he says lamely. His head still spins a little, and he doesn’t have a clue what he should do now. Call Everett? But first things first. “Where’s Bucky?”

“In the next room. We’re in a guest house, of a sort. I must tell you, his story was…confusing. Not that it’s past being credible you could do something reckless for the sake of others, but he didn’t give any details. Not even a name.”

“Uh. He doesn’t know it. I’ll explain.” Steve gets up gingerly, willing his body to submission. His mouth is terribly dry, but he’ll drink something afterwards, he should get to Bucky first and to make sure Sam and others understand why he’d done this.

It’s like a blow to his solar plexus, to see Bucky in heavy magnetic handcuffs.

“ _I_ suggested it,” Bucky says hastily. “I don’t mind. I attacked you after all. Everyone felt safer.”

Steve knows he needs to clarify everything, and it’d good King T’Challa is present, too, because Steve isn’t sure he’ll have the guts to repeat his story. He cuts out some intimate details of course, but he can see both Sam and the king are surprised, mildly put.

“He can’t demand your friend’s extradition,” King T’Challa declares with a frown when Steve is finished. “There’s no prosecution against you or him. At least officially. The military don’t like people breaking into their top secret prisons, but they are unlikely to admit their mistakes. Confronting the national superheroes and failing won’t add to their reputation. Ms. Carter shouldn’t face any trouble for having met with you, for you’re not convicted as a criminal. I see no grounds for blackmailing.”

This should have been a consolation, but Steve finds he can’t feel anything at all, all emotions drained from him. He knows he’s been a fool. It’s hardly surprising. Everett was right about his intellectual abilities.

He knows he has to apologize for the disturbance he’d caused, but there’s no energy left in him for remorse either. The only thing he wants—the only thing he remembers to want because it’s important—is to unlock Bucky’s handcuffs, or to ask someone to do it because he’s…maybe ‘unwell’ is too harsh a word…but he needs a minute...he’ll be fine, but…

“Steve!”

There’s a strange sound of something ripping off. Enveloped by soft, fuzzy darkness, Steve vaguely wonders what that might be.

…Déjà vu is an unpleasant thing, especially if it happens twice in a day. Steve comes to on the same wide and narrow bed, and the first thing he feels is shame. Fainting like a damsel in distress—that’s the famous American hero for you.

“You okay?” Sam asks sympathetically. “That chokehold must have been nasty. I know you’re healing fast and all, but a doctor will be here in a minute. Maybe it’s better he checked up on you. ”

Steve rubs his face with both palms. “No, there’s no need. It’s just dehydration, I guess. And if you could get me something to eat, that would be great. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to cause problems. It’s not Bucky’s fault at all.”

Sam chuckles nervously. “Dude, tell that to _him_.”

Steve sits up and what he sees—it gives him a shock. Bucky kneels at the foot of his bed, slumped against it, face buried in his arms. It’s as if he waits for penance.

Sam hands out a bottle of water to Steve, and he takes it automatically, drinks in messy gulps, unable to take his eyes off Bucky.

“I’ll go get something edible,” Sam says. He hesitates for a moment. “If it’s okay to leave you with him? The way he tore off those handcuffs…that was pretty scary. I know he did it to get to you when you fell, but still—”

He talks of Bucky as if he’s not present, but Bucky doesn’t show that he minds, or is paying attention at all.

When Sam’s gone, Steve squirms off the bed and sits down on the floor beside Bucky. “Hey,” he says softly. No reaction. He tentatively lays a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and muscles go tense under his touch, like Bucky braces himself against what’s to come. _If things got rough, that was because I could have done better_ , he’d said.

“Look, I’m fine, and you’re fine. We’re safe,” Steve tells him helplessly. He’s unsure whether it’s better to back off or not. Through the dense fabric of Bucky’s hoodie, he can’t feel the raised, uneven scars along the socket of his artificial arm, but knows them to be there.

“I hurt you,” Bucky mutters into his folded arms. “I miscalculated.”

“No, it’s my fault, not yours. Haven’t you heard what I told Sam? Not eating, not drinking, not sleeping…that wears out even a super resilient body, all right.”

Bucky dares a side glance at him, his face half-shadowed by long strands of tousled hair. “Why would you—” Then he turns to Steve completely, eyes lit up with anguish. “Was it because of _him_? Of course it was. He tortured you. Oh god, Stevie—”

It would be easier if Steve could say, “Yes, it’s Everett, he’s the one to blame.” But he shakes his head. “No, Everett was just a part of it all. I needed to feel something physical, I guess. Something unpleasantly physical. Pain, or hunger, or exhaustion, whatever. Everett just picked up on it, and provided me with what I craved, and I let him. You said—it doesn’t take much effort to break what’s already broken. I know what you mean. Everett didn’t break me. He just messed with the shards. No matter what he planned, no matter how it turned out in the end…to me, he was just a means for self-harm, in a way.”

“Why?” When Bucky is confused, he looks impossibly, unbearably young. Startling sad eyes. Long fluttering lashes. A crease between his brows and a childish pout.

Steve sighs. “It distracted me from thinking of some things. Of the way I failed you. The way I failed everyone. Maybe you could compare it to wiping, only not so effective because I remembered everything afterwards.”

“So it’s all because of me, all the same,” Bucky says slowly, the crease on his forehead deepening. “You split your team. Become a fugitive. Give up on being Captain America. And then I leave you with all that, and somehow make you think you ought to deprogram me. Steve, I thought you’d be living your own life, not trying to fix what was left of mine, honestly. I thought you’d be able to, even after what had happened. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Steve smiles at him wanly. “No worries, Buck. It’s nobody’s fault, really. Certainly not yours. Remember you said you’d changed long before you’d fallen… Well, it was something like that with me. After coming back from the ice, I never felt I belonged anywhere. I tried to be useful. I tried to do what seemed right. But that…that wasn’t actually living, I guess. There was nothing to save. Not being able to help you—that was just the last straw.” The flood of words stops, leaving him empty. He takes a long, quivering breath. He’d never said this to anyone, not directly.

What Bucky does next…it’s unexpected. He suddenly leans in and presses a quick kiss to Steve’s lips, just an awkward peck.

For a moment, they just stare at each other, as if they both not quite sure what’s happened.

“Buck?”

“What?” Bucky inquires defiantly. “It seemed to have worked the last time I did it. It calmed you down.”

Steve blinks at him. “I thought you forgot.”

“That freezer truck you told me about—we did it there, right? Was it why you asked me about it, of all things?”

“Yeah, but…” Steve strains to make everything clear, and it’s painful. “You just teased me. You said I was jealous about that readhead, Dolores, and not just angry about losing our train money on her. We sort of romped about. We laughed. It wasn’t…a serious kiss.”

“But you _were_ jealous. And I _wanted_ to reassure you. As far as I remember, it worked. It was kind of awkward, but we both felt better, I think. Didn’t we?” He suddenly frowns. “But I don’t remember what happened afterwards.”

“Because _nothing_ happened. We came home, we went on as usual. We were both…um…not interested in any progress in that direction. You weren’t like that, and I…I think I was never too much concerned about…well…carnal needs. And now…if that’s because of the picture you saw—”

Bucky looks hesitant. “You said you didn’t like it. I would never do anything you don’t like. But if you want to…you could…I wouldn’t mind.” He takes Steve’s hand and guides it to his neck and presses hard. Caught unawares again, Steve lingers for a second. Bucky’s pulse is throbbing wildly.

“Uh.” Steve’s mind finally catches up and he gently eases his hand out of Bucky’s hold. “Sorry. I’m so messed up, I can’t even explain…But I don’t want to hurt you either. I never want you to hurt.”

“I just want to make it better for you,” Bucky says unhappily. “What should I do? Whatever I do is wrong.”

Looking into Bucky’s eyes, so full of concern and guilt, Steve knows what he wants—desperately, hopelessly.

He wants to be small and helpless again, with Bucky sitting by the side of his bed and telling him off for some reckless deed, but ruffling his hair at the same time, because Bucky cares for him so much that it feels like being loved. But it’s never gonna happen.

“It was fine what we had,” he says quietly. “Just…being together. But even if you won’t stay, it’s all right. You don’t have to do anything for my sake, just because you feel obliged. I can get by on my own.”

“The thing is, you don’t have to.”

And that’s what makes Steve break down, another code phrase from his past. He finds himself clutching at Bucky’s hoodie, wrapping him in a tight, convulsive hug and breathing out a sob. A wave of physical longing hits him even harder than when they sat on the roof, cradling each other. He knows it’s pathetic and unmanly, but he doesn’t care. He never wants to let go.

“Bucky,” is all he’s able to say.

That’s what he wishes for himself. The one who will always be by his side. The one.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Bucky’s neck. “I thought I could help you, but I don’t know how. And now I trouble you with my problems as if your own are not enough.”

Bucky huffs, very much like his usual self. “It’s okay, pal. It seems I don’t know how to help you either. So don’t get too upset over it, we’re even.”

But it’s not true. He _does_ help. _This_ helps, like nothing else does.

When Sam returns, he’s delicate enough to put a tray on a cabinet by the door and quietly retreat.


	10. Freight Car

It’s almost dawn, so he can see it clearly—the ocean waters rising up with horrifying speed, up to the window, higher, higher. It’s a matter of seconds before the cracked glass shatters under the wild mass of icy slush—and it rushes inside. It’s the end. For a moment, he’s lulled by the dull inevitability of it, but then he remembers.

He’s not alone this time. There’s someone else beside him, sleeping, unaware of the danger. Bucky. No, please, not him too!

“Bucky,” he tries to call out, but nothing comes out. He can’t move. His body is trapped, useless. Frozen in place.

The water is seeping through the cracks. Please let Bucky live. Please. Please. Don’t make him go through this.

“Steve?”

As if a mockery, the last vision slips before his eyes. A little place of their own, a shaggy dog dozing on a rug at his feet. He’s drawing Bucky, sprawled on a sofa, relaxed and contented. It’s all wrong. They will never have this.

The glass finally gives in.

“Steve!”

He wakes up with a start, to the feeling of Bucky shaking his shoulder. Bucky backs off immediately, and Steve looks around, disoriented. It’s still dark, but everything’s peaceful and quiet. He suppresses the stupid urge to come to the window and make sure there’s no water behind it.

“You were groaning,” Bucky says apologetically. “I thought I’d rather—”

“Sorry,” Steve manages. His voice is husky. He wipes the traces of tears from his face, ashamed. Bucky saw them, obviously. “Maybe it was a bad idea, sleeping together.”

“Hey.” Bucky lays a hand on his shoulder again, the flesh one, and rubs up and down soothingly. “It’s okay. Want to tell me what the dream was?”

Steve can’t bear to look at him. He stares at the ceiling instead. “I thought you were with me on the Valkyrie. I didn’t want you to be there. It wasn’t…a fast death.” He feels himself flush when he realizes it sounds like fishing for sympathy. But he’s not! “I know you went through worse,” he adds quickly. “I’m just saying this so you know—it happens sometimes. I might bolt in the middle of the night. I should have warned you.”

“Yeah. I suppose we both have rather disturbing near-death experiences.” Bucky’s hand keeps skimming along Steve’s arm, up and down, feather-like. “You don’t want me to pity you, right?”

“Absolutely not,” Steve says with resolve, still staring at the ceiling. It’s perfectly smooth. No cracks to contemplate.

It almost hurts how much he wants to turn and press his face to Bucky’s chest, to wrap himself around him and stay like that for a while, hidden from the world, from what’s expected of him. But that would be a weakness he can’t afford. Bucky has problems much worse than his, and it’s unfair to trouble him with things that don’t really matter. Feelings, not facts. Steve has always wanted to be strong for Bucky, to help, to be of use. He can’t stand to be a burden instead.

What does Bucky get out of being with him? Nothing. Not even sex.

“Go back to sleep,” Steve says in an even voice. “I’ll take a pillow and move to the couch.”

He intends to slide off from the bed, but Bucky catches a fistful of his t-shirt. “Don’t leave.”

“I don’t want to disturb you.”

“What if I had a nightmare? Would you let me deal with it alone?”

“Do you? Have nightmares, I mean.”

In the grayish twilight, he sees Bucky’s face contort. “No. I sleep like a baby. I’m still a well-functioning machine.” He lets go of Steve’s t-shirt. “Okay, Stevie. Leave if you want to.”

But, of course, now he can’t. He sits on the edge of the mattress, uncertain what he should do. He didn’t want to upset Bucky but managed to do it anyway. Yeah, that’s the delicate Steve Rogers for you.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a tight voice. He always spoils everything.

Bucky makes a growling sound in his throat. “Oh you punk. Come here.” Without waiting for Steve to comply, he grabs him and turns him and pulls him close. It’s easy because Steve doesn’t fight.

“We should stop saying ‘sorry’ every five minutes,” Bucky tells him in a while. “It’s almost as bad as swearing. And honestly, do you really want me to stop prying when you’re upset? I never used to, no matter how you bristled at me.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Steve chuckles, despite himself. “You’re not an easy person to get rid of… Not that I wanted it too much.”

Head pressed to Bucky’s chest, he feels Bucky nod.

“Good, then. And by the way, you can pry, too, if I seem off. That’s what friends are for.”

“Is it what we are?” Steve blurts out then bites his tongue. He shouldn’t have asked.

Bucky considers his question and asks cautiously, “Isn’t this enough?”

“For me, it would be, but—”

Maybe one day Bucky would want a proper family. Yeah, they’ll be best mates still, getting together now and then. But for Steve, that would be pretty much the same as meeting with his war comrades, all of them well over ninety by now, and inviting them to Avengers parties. Fun mixed with heartache, that’s what it felt like. The latter partly because they’d had a life without him, a normal human life, and partly because it was close to its end, and he couldn’t do anything about it. On the whole, he’d had nothing to do with their life at all, and it had felt so lonely.

The thought of losing Bucky again is unbearable. Of course, it’s not something Steve will ever admit aloud. It’s too selfish, too unkind.

The pause grows too long, and Bucky prompts him, “But? You think it won’t be enough for _me_ someday?”

“People don’t usually stay together…unless they have…you know, sex. Or unless they’re related,” Steve says miserably because Bucky will interrogate him until he finds what’s amiss. “I mean, being friends is nice too, yeah, jogging together in the mornings or watching a movie now and then, or even supporting each other if something bad happens. But that’s not sharing each other’s lives, completely, day after day. That’s only what families do. What lovers do. And I can’t be your…um…I could, but that’s not…” He stumbles gracelessly and feels himself blush.

“Is it what you want? Being with me day after day?”

Steve just shrugs. It must be so obvious.

“So I suppose we’re a bit more than friends, then?” Bucky asks softly.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers back when his words sink in. “Bucky. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Bucky laughs quietly into his hair, a ticklish gust of breath. “No idea either, punk. Maybe saving the world several times in a row pays off, huh?”

Slowly the tension seeps out of Steve. He might be still lost and confused, but it’s all right because Bucky will take care of him. He feels himself melting, dissolving, every breath like a small miracle because it’s in union with Bucky’s breathing. It’s overwhelming, the urge to hold tighter, to snuggle closer, to mold his body against Bucky’s until they become one. Distantly, he wonders if that’s what other people feel when they make love, though there’s nothing sexual about it. But this thought disappears along with any others because every second is too precious to lose it on anything else but here and now.

It’s easy and comfortable, being close, like they’d been sleeping together for ages. Slowly, Steve drifts back into slumber. It’s like falling asleep in a freight car at full speed, having little idea of where it’s heading—and not caring in the least because there’s someone else beside you, the most important person in the whole universe, and he’s with you till the end of the line. Everything around might be shaking and shattering, changing every second, but inside of the cocoon made of shared warmth the world is perfectly still.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to visit me on [Tumblr](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com) to find out more about my writings :)


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